


Scrap Papers

by craple



Series: Seeing Red [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Courtship, Jason is secretly a sap, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>‘Hey Baby Bird,’</i> it says. <i>‘I’m on top of you. And yes, for the next hour and a quarter, I am going to send you messages which consists all sorts of innuendos, even Dick will blush in shame. Not as pretty as you will though, don’t worry. I am loyal at heart.’</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrap Papers

**Author's Note:**

> blech.

School is a necessity for every Wayne children.

Despite being smarter than any of his friends – a fact Tim is not afraid to voice out loud, in the company of his brothers _and_ Bruce, at least – Tim is not allowed to skip classes.

Neither is Damian, but the demon spawn has probably already taken over his class by now. Also, quite possibly, taken over the school itself and is currently terrorising the teachers into giving him amazing grades, no absences, and an ‘A’ on his report’s behaviour column. Tim is sure on that. Dick and Steph are betting on it.

Cass, the lucky _Daddy’s Little Girl_ she is, first three letters all capitalised for the big deal it is, gets to be homeschooled in Linguistic only. Seeing that she currently resides in the foreign country that is Hong Kong while not being able to even _properly_ speak English, Bruce has deemed it a must to get the best, kindest, and prettiest teacher Tim has ever seen for his _little girl_.

Damian is still bitter about that. Tim can’t blame him.

Anyway; grads school – no cliché, no cliques, and no calamities involving the mockery that is his hair or the fact that he’s quiet and likes to be alone, or how he eats at the back of the library while he reads.

He thinks half the students in every class Tim attends are betting – what _is_ with people and money, seriously – that she is going to kick him out of the library, some day. Without knowing who he is (the ‘Wayne’ has been left out of the papers, Alfred’s made sure of that), and that’s just, rude.

Or, the more disturbing version, confess the deep forbidden-through-age-gaps love she harbours for him. Tim is mildly perturbed about all of this.

Mrs. Potts has a soft spot on him, she would _never_.

Fridays are ‘Field Study Day’ for his Psychology class. Tim always loves Fridays because the teacher rarely shows up, and they still get to spend the day on the green grass of the school’s backyard. It’s safe to say Tim is in love with that major, since it’s so easy to slip out without being noticed. Always gets back ten minutes before his next class starts.

But, as luck would have him, _of course_ the dull Mr. Taverns shows up in this particular Friday. Of _course_ it has to be raining outside before they even take a step toward the yard, and _of course_ Mrs. Potts lets them study in library out of pity – her loathing of Mr. Taverns aside – or, as Tim’s classmate claims it to be, out of her love for Tim.

It is very much disturbing, is what it is.

So Tim lets himself be dragged all the way across campus, into the library, and drowns the sound of Taverns’ voice to the pouring of the rain.

He takes notes, surely. Today he’s telling them about the case of a perfect liar; how he or she gives nothing away when he or she lies, that there’s no cold sweat or any sign of nervousness or a single tell, as it is a daily thing for them to do. It is how better thieves survive. By lying through their teeth every single day, it’s like breathing.

Eighteen minutes through class, Tim stops paying half of his attention to Mr. Taverns’ lecture. Donna who sits a few rows away wouldn’t mind lending him her notes later, anyway, so he focuses on the droplets of water sliding down the library’s window, the line of trees afar.

For his next class, Tim’s got an exam on Stats, and papers concerning the Great London Fire on Culture. He revises the material for today’s exam silently in his head, fingers tapping the edge of the mahogany table, when a scrunched-up paper the size of his fist lands on top of his head.

_Literally_ , on top of his head.

Not from the side, or the back; it is undoubtedly falling from above. Tim looks up, finds nothing but the clean and shiny milk white ceiling staring back at him. He unfolds the paper.

_‘Hey Baby Bird,’_ it says. _‘I’m on top of you. And yes, for the next hour and a quarter, I am going to send you messages which consists all sorts of innuendos, even_ Dick _will blush in shame. Not as pretty as you will though, don’t worry. I am loyal at heart.’_

Mr. Taverns finds him uncomfortable (half-hard) and flushing (barely coherent) seventeen messages later, mainly because one of the messages _accidentally_ falls down as he reaches near, and sends him to the headmistress’ office for inappropriate behaviour.

Alfred is not pleased.


End file.
